An Impossible View
by ThePreciousHeart
Summary: Following the events of El Camino, Jesse tries to make himself at home in Haines, Alaska. He knows he can't set things right, but with the help of the community surrounding him, he makes a fresh start, and begins to recover from his troubled past. One-shot.


_An Impossible View_

Alaska is… white. That's all that comes to mind as Jesse flies down the road, heat blasting and radio filled with static. White, and… kind of _dense? _Evergreen trees crowd both sides of the highway, their branches laden with a heavy burden of snow. Ahead in the distance rise the immense peaks of mountains. It should feel… unsettling, perhaps, to be surrounded with nowhere to go but forward, hurtling towards a destination unknown. But instead… well, it's nice to look at. And Jesse has never felt more free.

Albuquerque was dry, flat and dull. Jesse had spent several winters as a child waiting for the elusive "white Christmas" about which he'd always heard in songs, before finally accepting that snowfall this far south at this time of year would never happen. He wonders if that was the beginning of his disillusionment with the town, and the world as a whole. Though it really didn't take much. Even before he'd spent the last year of his life being lied to, disrespected, abused- before Mr. White had approached him- before he'd even left high school, he'd known that the last place in the world for him to move out, settle down, and live on his own was fucking Albuquerque.

As sick of the town as he's grown, though… it's all he's ever known. Its heat has settled into Jesse's bones, down into a deep spot where Alaska's chill can never reach. He will carry it with him wherever he goes, because for twenty-five years, it was his home.

This place can become a home, too.

* * *

The house that Ed secured for Jesse is small, as are all the houses on this street. Though the deed is in his name, or rather his new name, and paid for with his money, he wonders as he pulls into the driveway if Ed was purposefully being stingy. White paint peels from the walls' wooden slats. The screen door hangs ajar, as if blown aside in a violent wind. Leftover curtains are probably covering the windows, because Jesse can't see inside the house. He's not sure if that's comforting or not. There's a little porch out front where he can sit and observe the motionless mountains, if he so desires.

Instead of unpacking right away, Jesse takes a tentative walk down the street. He's not far from the shore of a lake, or a bay, or whatever it is exactly. As he gazes across the rippling water, the scene strikes Jesse as surreal. It looks just like what he's seen on TV, on all those Discovery Channel shows that he allowed to ferment his brain after a hard day's work at the lab. He wonders if children ever come to swim here during the summer, the way he and his family used to at the community pool back in ABQ. No… this isn't that type of water. They'd get their legs all scratched up from fishermen's hooks. Besides, Jesse doubts the temperature ever gets higher than 40. Too cold to go swimming. This harbor is more decorative than anything, something to stand beside and admire and credit to one's peace of mind. _Shit, if it were that easy…_

He returns to inspect the rest of the house. The backyard is… nothing, really, but he can work with that. He doesn't plan on spending much time outside, not with the onset of fall, anyway. Maybe he'll plant something when the weather gets warmer. Just to make it look nice. There's a dumpy little shed out back that's hardly any bigger than the house, and that's it.

Finally, vacillating between trepidation and anticipation, Jesse hoists his bags up the stoop and unlocks the front door. To his pleasant surprise, he finds that the main room is… _vast. _The house is only one story, but its lack of furniture, besides a chair that faces a TV set and a beaten wooden table, gives a sense of spaciousness. There are no shadowy corners in which a person could hide away, no nooks or crannies besides the cabinets in the kitchenette and the mantelpiece over the hearth where one could stash secrets. The room reflects how Jesse hopes to be perceived- open. Not as in _honest_, of course, but _forthcoming. _He doesn't want to spend the rest of his newfound life as a reclusive shut-in. He's dropped down into the center of a society for a _reason._

Leaving his bags at the door, Jesse explores further. He runs his hand across the dull, unpapered wall that bends off into a hallway. Down the hall are four doors, leading to a bedroom and basement on one side, and a bathroom and laundry room on the other. The back door is at the end of the hallway, with a window cut into it so Jesse can sit by the main door and stare all the way into the backyard.

It's only when he tries the door and finds it locked that a deep rush spills over him- a sense of _feeling, _after spending half the trip up here on autopilot, hardly daring to think about anything but _survive, survive, survive. _For so long, it's all he's kept his mind wrapped around, even when he could have just dropped dead… Now he's here. He's _survived. _It shouldn't have been this easy- but it _was._

Okay. This place? This place will _do. _Things might actually end up _better _here. They might even end up _good. _

At this point, _good _is the least he can ask for.

* * *

Later that night, Jesse startles awake because _someone is in the house._

He _hears _them, boots creaking on the floorboards, a hushed murmur of nasty, acidic voices sounding from just outside his bedroom. He smells cigarette smoke, even sees it faintly wafting through the crack under the door at the foot of his bed. Though he can't make out any specific words, the voices are ugly and cruel, and in a flash he knows. These are _Jack's _men, whatever vestiges are left after the assault on their compound, and they're here and they're _pissed _and they traced him down and there's no escape…

They've can't hide, they've got nowhere to go. But that means Jesse can't hide either.

Jesse tries to rise, sweat pouring down his face. But he can't. His torso rises an inch from the mattress, only to be yanked down again. The force tears into old wounds on his back, sending splitting pain throughout his body. He tries to lift his arms, but he can't do that either. They've got him chained, bound hand and foot and entirely at their mercy- of which Jesse knows firsthand they have none. He struggles violently now, his jaw hanging open in a silent scream. But it's futile to move, because the chains keep tugging him in opposite directions, and the voices are getting louder now, and any moment they're going to come back in and stuff him into a hole and it's going to start all over again. They'll prolong his miserable existence out of greed, and he'll never, _ever _be truly free-

Again Jesse wakes, this time to refreshing silence and a wide-open door. He doesn't pause to let it register that this was all a dream. He grabs the scratchy woolen blanket that he'd packed for his cross-country journey, rolls off the bed, and marches straight into the main room, his mind on lockdown. The darkness does little to assuage is mind, but over the sound of his own rasping breaths, he becomes aware that there's no one in here. He's alone, and he's safe. Safe from physical harm, anyway. He's still prey to the terrors of his mind.

Lying on the couch, Jesse covers his face with his hands. He supposes he ought to feel _something. _Relief that the nightmare is over, anger that it happened, anguish as he recalls the men who'd held him captive and all that they took away from him. But instead… he's _exhausted. _He just wants this to end. The past is behind him- dead, buried, gone. It's not fair that he should think about it any more than he has to.

Perhaps Jesse was too optimistic to stay in the bedroom his first night. _Gotta work your way up to it. _He falls into a deep sleep, but by the next morning, he still doesn't feel rested.

* * *

The snow on the ground is fresh by the time Jesse emerges from his house the following morning. Bundled up in a coat and hat, he fumbles through his pockets for a cigarette while staring at the majestic mountains rising before him. His breath is visible in the air; from afar, it might look like he's started smoking already. Jesse pulls out his BIC to light the cigarette, but before he can do so, he stops himself. Quietly, he studies the cigarette. Those six long months of torment cured him of any lingering urge to get high. _Who needs Narcotics Anonymous when you've got… _He can't finish the thought. Picturingthe meth they'd forced him to produce for hours on end brings the taste of bile to the back of Jesse's throat. But he was always eager, perhaps pathetically so, for one more smoke. Replacing one vice for another, like a natural.

Well, no more vices. Determined, Jesse throws his unlit cigarette into the snow. It's time to make a fresh, _clean _start. He has nothing left to hide behind.

Today's first order of business is to visit the supermarket, because lord knows Jesse can't survive solely on his travel snacks- pretzels, potato chips, Funyuns. In retrospect, he's surprised his diet didn't kill him way back when, eating trash with a side dish of whatever his drug of choice happened to be that day. Then again… he's survived a _lot _of things he shouldn't have, against all rhyme and reason. Some might find the sentiment inspirational, but to Jesse, it only brings up memories on which he'd rather not dwell..

He can't tell, as he pushes his shopping cart down the grocery store's aisles and blinks under the fluorescent lights, if he's imagining the faces turned his way, the side-eye glances. This seems like a town small enough to instantly single out newcomers. Maybe they're wondering where the scars on his face came from. He resists the nervous urge to cover them, to reflect on their cause. _No looking back. Not anymore. _Surely Ed wouldn't have agreed to send him here, if there was any chance that the locals could trace down his true identity. There's a reason why his services cost a fortune- he's a _professional. _But though he hates to admit it, last night's dream has left Jesse on edge.

The frozen food section's at the back of the store, and Jesse eagerly heads for it, choosing to sacrifice quality over low prices and ease of preparation. However, there's a cart blocking his way at the end of the aisle, so he stops and waits for the owner of the cart to make her selection. His gaze drifts from case to glass case, until it lands on a familiar brand of vanilla ice cream.

Jesse stares straight ahead, but he doesn't see the ice cream in its tub. He sees it in a bowl, offered to him at the end of the day for a job well done. Little had Todd known of Jesse's plans to make a break for it… and little had Jesse known what was to occur when said break was discovered…

As much he hated- _hates _Todd, he hates even more to acknowledge in retrospect that Todd's fucked-up little gifts were often the best part of his day. When the sun went down and his tormentors threw him back inside his prison, he ended up… drifting. His body lay immobile at the bottom of a pit, but his mind roamed far, seeking out some measure of comfort from long-lost memories. Sometimes he imagined that Andrea or even Jane was with him, but after a while, playing pretend hurt too much. Sometimes he returned to his childhood, back before everything had gone to shit. Mostly, though, he simply thought of nothing, trying to will himself into unconsciousness.

But occasionally Todd stopped by at the end of the day, bearing ice cream or candy or a fresh pack of cigarettes, and though Jesse felt so sick for appreciating the gifts, he couldn't help accepting them. It wasn't a question of choice. It was the closest he could get to finding relief from his situation, the finest luxury available…

"Excuse me." Jesse comes back to reality with a sudden jolt. The woman with the shopping cart is trying to move out of his way. Mumbling an apology, he presses against the shelves as she passes him, before turning his cart around and following after. Now is not the time to lose himself inside his head. But thoughts of the ice cream still haunt him, of how delicious it had been, even when he'd have rather smashed the bowl on the ground and smeared Todd's face in it.

The cashier doesn't glance Jesse's way once as she checks out his items. He exits the store breathing more easily. Now that that's done with… a quick stop back at the house, and then it's time to head to the local library. The thought of going to the library strikes Jesse as funny, in a way that's not funny at all. A lifetime ago, it was the last place he'd have ever planned to visit, but now… _Could always use some education. _

The Haines Borough Public Library is decent, all warm wooden beams and sky-high windows and comfortable-looking chairs. There's no point in dawdling; Jesse chooses a seat at the nearest computer and gets down to business. In this case, _business_ is shockingly literal. He pulls up and Snagajob and several other websites of their ilk, all of them the bane of his existence during his aimless post-grad days. He searches for the town's official website, to familiarize himself further with the area and check to see if any local jobs have been listed. He's not even sure what he's looking for, really- just some way of ensuring that he'll still have a house to maintain come this time next year. It doesn't matter whether he's qualified for it or not. Chances are he isn't.

Not many local businesses are hiring, as befitting a town like this. But Jesse doesn't have to do much digging before he strikes gold. There's a sales associate position open at a hardware store right down the street. It's not a chain, which is inexplicably relieving. And the pay, while not ideal, certainly isn't something he'd think of turning down. For the moment, it's doable. If they hire him, he'll work as hard as he can to ensure he gets a raise as soon as possible. He'll become their go-to guy.

After printing his brand-new, phony resume, filled with references who will never pick up the phone and mass corporations who'd have a hell of a time singling out one employee from many, Jesse's computer time is up, and he pushes his chair back. He refuses to open the browser again and search covertly for news which might pertain to him. While the dust he's kicked up has yet to settle over Albuquerque, he can't afford to check in. A cold shiver runs through his gut just thinking about what could happen if they found him here, in the one place he thought he'd be free, where Mike said… Mike said…

No. It doesn't matter what Mike said, even when it affected Jesse's decisions. He can't let the past shape his future anymore. Only when it comes to learning from his mistakes.

On the way out of the library, Jesse stops to read the bulletin board posted by the doors. He scans each flyer mechanically, random words leaping out at him. _Fall festival… English literacy… survey… woodworking…_

_Woodworking? _The flyer is printed in plain black ink on white paper, minus a colored graphic of a saw and a hammer at the top of the page. The information it conveys is sparse, but to the point. Classes in woodworking- and more specifically, table-making- will take place at Custom Woodworking and Design, starting Saturday the 25th from 1 to 5. Those interested must sign up prior to the first class.

Jesse stares at the flyer for a long time, trying not to think of the classes he'd taken a lifetime ago, and how he'd thrown all his hard work away for a fix. Trying not to compare the box he'd made back then with the poison he'd ended up mass-producing, a one-man meth factory, slaving away on the end of a chain.

Throughout those endless hours, broken only by random visits from Todd trying to make conversation, or worse, those skinhead goons who were bored or smashed out of their skulls and in the mood to screw with their little pet rat, Jesse's only means of survival had been to shut out the rest of the world and return to that place inside his head. That place when he'd made something he wasn't ashamed of, something beautiful. Something that anyone could look upon and admire without reservation. Just himself and his tools and his workstation, where no one could convince him he wasn't good enough, or claim that he hadn't applied himself. In that place… he was free.

The _swoosh _of the automatic doors causes Jesse to emerge from his mind. He steps aside to allow an old man entrance to the library, shoving his fists in his pockets to hide his trembling fingers. His hand clasps around the cell phone in his pocket- a worn, beaten device that hasn't rung once since he got here- and he manages to fold his entire mind around it, too. It anchors him, drawing him fully to the present.

Without giving it any thought, Jesse pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the flyer on the wall. The automatic flash startles him, and he hastens to turn it off. He studies the resulting picture, each word legible. _Saturday the 25th. _Two weeks from now. He's got time.

It isn't until he reaches his car that he remembers the significance of the date, and despite himself, he wants to laugh. He's turning twenty-six on the day before Saturday. _Happy goddamn birthday._

* * *

Campbell's Hardware is… not quite _deserted, _exactly. Maybe _isolated _would be a better word. There are a few customers, and the shelves aren't very high, and sun pours in from the upper skylights and the music that's playing comes from a transistor radio at the front counter. It's about what Jesse expected, and it suits his tastes. He waits in line behind the counter until the latest customer finishes with her transaction, leaving him free to approach the wizened man who's presumably the manager.

"Hello," the man says, before Jesse can offer a greeting. He leans forward across the counter. "What can I do for you?"

"Hi." Jesse puts out his hand, at once profoundly uncomfortable. The man's staring straight at him, and his eyes are expectant and friendly, but surely he notices the scars. Surely he'll say _something. _And even if he doesn't mention them, he's bound to draw conclusions that leave Jesse in a cold sweat. For a fleeting moment, he has no idea what he's doing here. He's never done anything like this before, not of his own volition, not without his parents breathing down his neck and masking their glares with tight-lipped smiles. God, shouldn't he have worn better clothes or something? Or at least _showered? _

But he's initiated contact, so it's too late to turn back. Jesse shakes the man's hand. "I'm, uh, I heard about the job opening. I'm new in town. My name's Kevin Driscoll."

"Pleasure to meet you, Kevin," the old man says, and hearing his new name sends a rush of clarity through Jesse. He's never known any Kevins, which he guesses is the point. No connotations, positive or negative. He supposes he should stop thinking of himself as Jesse, but he's been Jesse for so long. There aren't many things he's cared to take with him from his time in Albuquerque, but he's unwilling to give up the simple knowledge of his past identity. He's Jesse, but he is Kevin, too. He's both of them and neither of them at once, because what's the point of a name, anyway? He's just… a person. An unremarkable, blank slate of a person. Exactly how he should be.

"Well, I'm James Campbell." The man releases Jesse's hand and heaves a sigh. "The owner of this place, as you might have guessed. You say you're new around here? Where'd you move from?"

Part of Jesse stiffens at the initial question, but his rational side retreats to the collection of facts that Ed had fabricated for him, quizzing him over and over until he knew his own fake history front to back. He wonders if amnesia patients have to go through the same thing, to remember who they are each day.

"Southern California." One taste of the word on his tongue sends that familiar dry heat coursing through his veins. He's been to California, not _recently, _but he can recall well enough what it was like. And it's close enough to New Mexico to explain any regional colloquialisms and mannerisms Jesse might have. _At least that's what Ed said. _Personally he suspects the fellow's a bit behind the times. But he's not going to undermine him.

Mr. Campbell raises his eyebrows in a silent challenge. "That's a long way to travel."

"Not if you're sick of all that sunshine." Quietly, Jesse recites the yarn that Ed had spun for him, before convincing him to memorize it. "My mother's from the area. Always talked about it when I was growing up. I came here for the first time a few years ago, with some buddies of mine. Something about it just, uh, stuck with me. I've been waiting to come back ever since graduation." Pointedly, he declines to mention _which _graduation. He's careful not to say a word about starting fresh or beginning anew. The move has to sound like a natural progression in the course of his life.

"Your mother's from Haines?" asks Mr. Campbell.

"Anchorage." Jesse aims for a smile, and gets about halfway there. "This place, though? More my speed."

A friendly grin breaks out on Mr. Campbell's face, Jesse having apparently charmed him. "Give me the simple life, eh?"

"Yes, sir." Trying to transition the conversation onto more pertinent topics, Jesse pats his pockets, feeling for the resume he'd printed out that morning. "Uh, I've got my resume right here…" He withdraws and unfolds it before handing it over to Mr. Campbell, who scans it quizzically. His eyes move quickly across the page, apparently with disinterest, but after his warm welcome Jesse hopes his reaction means that the resume is superfluous.

"Thank you." Mr Campbell lowers the resume and, without breaking eye contact, places it on the counter behind him. Jesse refuses to look away, even when Mr. Campbell's gaze burns a hole through him. Wasn't that what they always said to do in professional situations- make eye contact, don't slouch, don't frown? He can hardly remember. The business in which he's been engaged for the past year required a different type of etiquette.

"So, what interests you in a place like this?"

Though he's resolved not to frown, the corner of Jesse's mouth twitches downward in confusion. "Like I said, the climate… the simple life-"

"No, not the town," Mr. Campbell breaks in. "The store." He's eyeing Jesse curiously now, in a way that Jesse senses means business. He's examining him for any sign of bullshit. Little does he know how practiced Jesse is with standing up to authority.

"I-" He bites back the truthful _I don't know, _quashes the blunt _because I need the money. _Resolution comes to strengthen him. "I'm just looking for a way to live comfortably. Something, uh, peaceful. With reasonable hours." Sensing that that isn't good enough, he tries for a different tact. "I like to… I'd like to help people. I've got a good sense for business. You give me a tool, I can tell you _exactly_ what it's used for, and whether a person is wasting their time in buying it." He breathes out a quick laugh, gesturing to the shelves around him. "I used a lot of these at home, and in my high school shop class." The mention of the shop just slips out, leaving Jesse mentally backspacing. Dammit, he has to be more _careful_ when revealing personal information.

"Is that so?" Mr. Campbell says. He looks as if he's ready to test Jesse, but both are saved when the bell above the store's entrance rings. A man strolls in, his hands in his pockets, and Jesse approaches him before Mr. Campbell can say a word.

"Excuse me! Sir. Can I help you find anything today?"

Once he's started, he's off and running- listening as the man describes the type of nails he's looking for, walking him over to the right aisle, explaining to the best of his knowledge the variety of brands, and finally offering further assistance when the man eventually makes his selection. All the while, Mr. Campbell looks on. Jesse's convinced that any moment now, Mr. Campbell is going to tip him off that he's doing it wrong and step in, but he watches him without a word, only taking charge when the man walks up to the counter to check out. Though he figures he should feel proud, a shaky feeling comes over Jesse, because _where the hell did any of that come from? _It's almost hilarious, because it's _so _not him. He only hopes he's made a good impression.

"Well," Mr. Campbell announces after the customer has left, and they're facing each other again. "Thank you for your impressive display of salesmanship." He doesn't sound sarcastic.

"You're welcome." Jesse takes a deep breath, aims for another half-smile. "Like I said, I know business. I'd really love to work here, it would mean… everything to me." He hesitates, waiting for Mr. Campbell to say something, but when the man only nods he has to ask. "Uh, when can I expect to hear back?"

Slowly, Mr. Campbell folds up Jesse's resume, before looking him dead in the eye. "When can you start?"

* * *

He's taking a shower when it happens again. One minute he's standing under the showerhead, drenching himself in warm water, and the next minute, the force of a hose is pummeling him on all sides. His hands fly up to shield his face, but they're useless against the water's stinging force. He can hardly breathe, hardly even move except to cling to the side of the building as if he'll find handholds that will help him keep his balance. Laughter surrounds him, as penetrating as the water, and through muffled eardrums he picks up the taunts and jeers as the hose is passed from person to person, giving everyone a turn.

By the time they shut the hose off, he's on his knees, coughing and spluttering and shaking his head. The laughter slowly dies down, but the voices still carry to Jesse's ears. "Okay," one of the goons drawls, and it sounds like the one they call Kenny. "That ought to cool him off."

"Here's hoping," Jack responds. Crouched on the ground, Jesse sees his shadow approach before he sees his face. He struggles to stand, his legs shaking, but finally manages it. Desperately his eyes scan the gathered audience, seeking out futile points of escape. They're probably all packing heat, and would have no qualms about shooting him if he ran. Hell, he'd be lucky to make it past_ one _of them in this state. But he has to try, _surely _he has to- _NO. _Jack is before him, ready to lead him back to either the meth lab or that shithole in the ground. At a loss, Jesse turns his face away so he won't meet Jack's eyes, backing against the wall as if it will protect him.

A few snickers erupt from the onlookers. "He don't want to go with you, Jack."

_Too bad, _Jack's stern glare seems to say, right before he hauls off and slams his fist into Jesse's stomach. The pain is so bad that Jesse doubles over, gasping for air again. To his humiliation, he feels whatever's left in his stomach- probably not much, because he can't remember the last time he's eaten- working its way up his throat and out of his mouth. The guffawing starts up again, and Jack leads the weakened Jesse away to the sound of his goons calling not it on cleaning up.

The sudden lack of water overhead brings Jesse back to reality. Dully he notices that he's shut the shower off, without realizing it. It's the only thing that registers in his emotionally-shaken state. He's backed up against the wall, just like he had done on that day, his entire body tensed. He shudders, sensing the phantom pain that had knocked the wind out of him, even though he's breathing easily.

Once again, he feels nothing in response to the flashback. Nothing but lingering weariness, and grim remnants of the way he'd felt in captivity. For the first few months, now matter how badly they mistreated him, no matter the sickening flash of fear that overcame him every time he chanced a glance at the photograph by his workstation and no matter how easy it would have been to give up and wait for death, he'd held onto the slim hope that maybe, if he was lucky, he'd find a way to break free. A chant resounded in his head- _Anywhere but here._

But when his one chance failed, and his worst nightmare came true, he'd lost anything resembling hope. _Anywhere but here _immediately became _Anything but this._

They wouldn't let him do anything to hurt himself. Of course, because that would have taken their fun away. They already fed him so little that a hunger strike would have accomplished nothing. There were no sharp objects in his cage, nothing dangling that he could wrap around his neck, and in the lab he was nearly always watched. They'd have rushed in and pumped his stomach if he'd attempted to swallow any harmful materials used in his work.

The one silver lining, Jesse figures, is that he no longer feels as broken, or as desperate for his life to end. Bits and pieces of a fighting spirit have replaced the all-consuming desire for endless sleep. Now that he's here in Alaska, far from the bodies he's buried out West, he wants to _live _as long as he can.

But the thought isn't comforting. Drained, Jesse exits the shower and searches around for his phone. He pulls up his photos and looks at the last one he'd taken, earlier at the library. The woodshop's phone number and address fill his vision, until they're burned into his brain.

Staying alive won't take the memories away. He needs something else to do that, something healthy and constructive. Something llike a hobby. Fortunately, he knows where to find one. Jesse begins to dial.

* * *

The beginner's program at Custom Woodworking and Design isn't that different from high school shop class, minus the fact that none of the students are high schoolers. Most are around Jesse's age, which relieves him to know he's in good company. A few are older, grizzled men who look as if this program is the last step in the process of obtaining their badge of masculinity. And there are a couple of women in the room, which definitely wasn't the case back in high school. Now that they're older, there's no stigma associated with one's class of choice. They're all here to learn, after all.

One of the women in the room is the instructor of the class, a blonde in her mid-thirties named Hanna Olsen. She immediately takes charge, hardly batting an eye at the motley assortment surrounding her. Jesse's pleased that none of the men hassle her or try to claim they know more than she does, although he keeps his eye on the older men. It doesn't matter who instructs him, as long as he learns.

The first class is spent going over the basics- the names of each tool, types of wood and what they're used for, the various branches of woodworking should one choose to turn their hobby into a career. Hanna outlines the course's end goal- to make a coffee table. The material is all familiar to Jesse, but he figures he owes it to himself not to zone out, seeing as he's paying for these classes. Besides, it's been long enough that he doesn't mind a refresher. Hanna is encouraging and, as Jesse quickly discovers, eager to provide a hand's on experience. The last hour of the class is spent demonstrating tools, with Hanna calling up different students to walk them through the process.

At first a tight ball of anxiety builds in Jesse's chest, an ever-present fear of the people around him and what they might assume from looking at him. But as he listens to Hanna speak, and focuses on the tools at his disposal, his fear slowly melts away. It's… relaxing, really, this kind of work. Or perhaps _satisfying _is a better word. Kind of like the last time he used his hands to make something, before it had become the bane of his existence. One thing's for sure, though- he much prefers Hanna's tutelage.

"Very well done," Hanna praises Jesse after he carefully chisels stock on a lathe. "Is this your first time using a lathe?"

"Ah, no." The attention on Jesse as he responds is… nice? He can't believe he's thinking that, but it _is. _"I… took classes in high school."

"It's great that you've chosen to pursue your interest," Hanna says with a smile. Jesse's caught staring at her crinkled eyes and perfect teeth. It's stupid, she looks nothing like _her, _but by the time it registers that he's expected to smile back, a series of hard, impersonal images have flashed before his eyes. A halo of light surrounding a silhouette in the doorway… a gun pressed to a curly head of hair…

Jesse tries to block out the images, but the entire world has shrunk to their size. Wildly he looks around, his gaze landing on points, serration, blunt objects... _No no NO- _He doesn't want to hurt himself, and he especially doesn't want to frighten his fellow class members. It's all he can do to mumble some excuse and head out the door, searching for the nearest bathroom.

He isn't aware of anything for a few moments, until the sound of a tap running and the cool water on his face rouses him. He shuts the tap off, breathing shakily, his heart galloping in his chest. Subject to the onslaught of memories, he feels vulnerable and- and _scared, _as if he's facing down the barrel of a gun.

They're not memories, really. He _knows _what happened, knows what that sick bastard Todd did, and sees it all in his mind's eye- but he doesn't _remember, _not exactly. He doesn't- he can't. He _won't._

Perhaps it's too early to be smiling at women.

Perhaps it always will be.

* * *

Four weeks into the program, when five o'clock rolls around and their time spent learning is up, one of Jesse's classmates proposes heading to the nearest bar, and half the class finds the idea agreeable. One recommendation from Hanna sends each person fumbling for their car keys. Jesse is torn between his initial instinct to reject the offer, and the small voice inside him that says _what's the worst that can happen? _He's never really had a problem with drinking, and he doesn't want to start now. But after spending so much time with the group, getting to know them as well as learning alongside them, Jesse's found that he's beginning to enjoy their company. The older guys are both kind of hard-asses, and speak with an unconscious smugness that likely comes from years of being told they're the best at what they do, but the rest seem pretty nice, and they're definitely the kind of people Jesse wouldn't mind getting to know. He figures this is a step in the right direction. Familiarize himself with his chosen community, instead of shutting himself away in an empty house.

As Jesse follows the car in front of him, he reflects on the progress he's made in the past few weeks, both within the confines of the woodshop and outside it. Professionally, his new job at Campbell's Hardware is going well- much better than he ever anticipated. He'd expected it to be a drag- staying on his feet all day unloading and cataloguing new orders, working the cash register, and trying not to grind his teeth when a customer refuses to believe that _we don't carry that product here, sir. _But in all honesty… it's not bad. Mr. Campbell is a fair boss, a man of few words who nevertheless always has time to spare for Jesse, and the environment is exactly what Jesse needs- something peaceful. Something secure.

On a personal level, however… he can't deny that his head is still a mess. Though he stays away from their various causes as best he can, he still cowers at flashbacks on a daily basis. Once a cheesy song comes on the radio, and as soon as it gets to the part about sharing the night together he's running halfway across the store to change the station. Another time, he nearly has a heart attack when he spies the name Alquist on a customer's debit card. And he avoids the section of the store that sells shovels like the plague. It's downright _exhausting, _at the end of the day, and he doesn't really know what will help. There's no way in hell he can open up to anyone, not even a therapist, about any of this, without them turning him over to the police. He refuses to use drugs again, because drugs were what started this whole mess, and as badly as he wants sometimes to block out the memories, the fear of what he'll become if he starts using again is worse. He senses he might feel better with company, voices to fill up his empty house, but it's not like he knows anyone he can invite over. The only thing for it is to bundle up and walk down to the shore, watching the occasional boat chug across the water and reminding himself that he's safe. He's disappeared off the grid without a trace. No one will ever find him here, unless he wants them to. Sometimes the reminder works, sometimes it doesn't.

The woodworking program has become an unexpected godsend. It's the brightest spot in Jesse's week, and he always hurries to ensure that he arrives on time. It's an oasis of relaxation, a place where Jesse can leave aside his baggage and concentrate on the here and now. The work absorbs his mind, carving out a safe space, just like the memory he'd clung to throughout all those grueling days at the compound, except the memory had turned back into reality. He likes being around people, even though he doesn't interact with them very much. It restores a sense of normality, helps him believe that he's just an average guy looking for a fun weekend hobby.

Hanna's bar of choice gives off a comfortable vibe. It looks as if it's been built into some stranger's house, with a roped-off deck out back, and some semblance of a lawn in the front. The bar's sign is wooden and hand-painted, with strings of multicolored lights providing a border. The inside, however, is just like any bar Jesse's ever seen, though the music is quieter and the lights are too bright. There's a row of booths against one wall, a sign for restrooms in the back, and a bartender at the counter, standing before an endless array of bottle-lined shelves. One TV screen glows with a ball game, while the other shows a closed-captioned sitcom.

Jesse's… classmates? Friends?... settle in at the bar, and he follows them. He's not going to lie- this definitely feels _weird. _It's been so long since he went on any kind of social outing that he's forgotten what he's expected to do. And this is nothing like the social outings he's used to, which usually ended with someone passing out drunk, sneaking off for a hookup, or ill-advisedly picking a fight. Looking back on it, the nights he'd spent with his buddies seem trivial, but no more so than what he's doing now- staidly sitting at a bar waiting to make small talk with a bunch of aspiring table-makers. There's a certain humor in it, if he lets himself contemplate. _So this is what it feels like to be an adult._

The talking starts, and Jesse hovers on the periphery, only breaking his concentration to order a ginger ale from the bartender. As he listens to the various conversations, a knot inside him relaxes. Some of these guys aren't too different from him. Sure, they're generally more clean-cut and he's willing to bet that none of them ever had a hand in running a meth empire, but they remind him a bit of what life was like before. They've got families and friends they care about, jobs they stress over, numerous hopes and worries- just like any person he's ever met, down in ABQ and up here.

It isn't until the bartender brings Jesse his soda that he notices Hanna sitting right beside him. In her glass is a lurid drink, some kind of greenish-yellow liquid. Clearing his throat, Jesse gestures to it. "What're you drinking?"

"Pickle juice," Hanna responds, and Jesse's stomach turns. "What? No."

"_Yes._" Hanna sounds as if she's on the verge of laughter. "I love pickles. I always ask for some if it's left over."

"Hey, I love pickles too," Jesse blurts, "but I wouldn't go _that _far."

Hanna shrugs and runs her finger down the side of her glass. "When you're sober, there aren't a lot of options."

_Huh. _Jesse wants to tell her that they have that in common, but he's too disgusted and too fixated on her choice. "So you go with _that? _What's wrong with, I dunno, a nice soda?"

"Carbonation." Hanna sips from her glass without grimacing, leaving Jesse dumbfounded. "Are you kidding? Do you even know what kind of shit they put in pickles?"

"Whatever it is, it's easier on the stomach than soda." Jesse can tell that Hanna's getting a kick out of this. He shakes his head. "Nah. You're screwing around. That's probably some weird kind of tequila-"

"See for yourself," Hanna interrupts, pushing the glass towards Jesse. He takes it hesitantly and gazes into its depths. A single whiff confirms what he'd only half-believed, and he pushes it aside, bewildered.

Beside Jesse, Hanna completely cracks, her shoulders shaking with thinly-suppressed laughter. "And now you know you're being taught by a psycho."

"Seriously?" Jesse blurts without thinking. "You're probably one of the _least _psychotic people I've ever met."

A second later, a wash of cold fear envelopes him. _He shouldn't have said that. _Why did he say that? What if Hanna sees his scars, puts two and two together, and asks him to elaborate? _How stupid can you be-_

But Hanna doesn't ask. She simply smiles in a low-key way that suggests she's flattered, but doesn't want to admit it, and takes another sip of her nasty pickle concoction. Slowly, the fear dissolves, surprising Jesse. _Nothing happened. Nothing happened. You're safe and sound._

"So…" He folds his arms across the counter and eyes the shining bottles on the wall before him. "It's not tempting for you to be here?"

Hanna exhales a slow breath. "It's been a few years since I quit." Her voice turns contemplative, her eyes glazing as she delves into the depths of her memories. "It's easier to control myself when I'm around people I know. I'd never come here alone." Her half-lidded eyes flicker to Jesse's face, betraying little emotion. "I guess it's no more tempting than it is for _you."_

Taken aback by Hanna's pointed tone, Jesse glances down at his drink. "Yeah, I…" He's lost for words, unwilling to open up and uncomfortable with her accuracy.

Fortunately, Hanna seems to pick up on Jesse's negative reaction. "Sorry. I didn't mean to assume anything." She taps her glass nonchalantly. "Feel free to tell me to stay out of your business."

"No, it's okay." Jesse hopes his sincerity is evident. He almost wants to make up a bullshit story about how alcoholism runs in his family, how his father scarred up his face when he was under the influence and how the abuse turned him off drinking for good. But it fits a little too perfectly. Plus he'd rather not dwell on what Jack's gang did to him, even through an indirect reference.

For a moment there's a bit of a reflective pause, before Jesse gets the conversation rolling again. "You been teaching for long?" It's something he's wondered about ever since meeting Hanna. As fellow woodshop instructors, she and Mr. Pike from high school are worlds apart.

"No…" A conflicted expression takes over Hanna's face. "Being completely honest, this is my first year teaching this class. There are several workers at the shop with more experience, but I figured I'd better, um, start early, in the event that I'll ever take on a future apprentice."

_Apprentice. _The word catches in Jesse's mind, dangling before him like a shiny object. He angles himself in his seat towards Hanna, giving her his full attention. "Hold on. What's it take to be an apprentice?"

Hanna blinks back at Jesse, her emotions barely concealed behind blue eyes. "Are you interested?"

"Um." He can't say he _isn't _interested. "There was a time that I thought…" The sentence dies on his lips. Let's face it, he'd thought of a lot of things. As a child, it had been making his own cartoons. As a student, a variety of options, from business to sports medicine to yes, even woodworking. As an adult, the question of _what _he did ended up not mattering compared to how much he was making, until he'd learned the hard way to be careful what he wishes for. Hanna's words have reminded Jesse that he no longer has a pre-planned path to stick to. It doesn't have to be about the money, and the woodworking classes don't have to be about blocking out the noise in his head. He's free to _enjoy _them.

Hanna makes a _hmm _noise in the back of her throat. Lightly, she says, "Weren't there any woodshops down in… Sorry, where'd you say you were from?"

Jesse flips confusedly backwards in his mind. "Um, I didn't." He raises his glass, looking straight at her, almost daring her to find the lie but at the same time willing with all his heart that she won't. "California."

Laughter pours from Hanna, though it's gentle and friendly, not mocking. "Tell me you didn't come up here chasing your pipe dream of racing the Iditarod."

"No…" It takes Jesse a moment to remember what the Iditarod is. He swallows some ginger ale. "Sled dogs are pretty cool though."

"Believe me, I know." Hanna signals to the bartender to collect her half-full glass, and Jesse can't help but feel amused. _Bet she was bluffing about liking that stuff. _"I've got more than enough at home. My dog Starr retired from racing a few years ago, and she just had puppies."

Again, Jesse's interest is piqued. Nothing about Hanna is stereotypical, so he finds it entertaining that she's an Alaskan who owns a sled dog. "No way. So you got, what, huskies?"

"Malamutes, actually."

"Aww, nice," Jesse says, even though he doesn't have a goddamn clue what the difference is. "Malamutes. How old?"

"Eight weeks." Her hands empty without a glass, Hanna slides her fingers into her hair and begins to unwork her bun. "Old enough to be separated from their mother. They're starting to be a handful, so we're looking into finding homes for them." Her eyes suddenly meet Jesse's, without a trace of guile. Under her gaze, Jesse finds himself blurting out, "Really? Could I maybe, uh, come see them sometime?"

Hanna says nothing. She only finishes taking her hair down, shaking it out before slowly raising her eyebrows. She's clearly waiting for Jesse to say something, either to offer transparency or to rescind his question. Suddenly it dawns on Jesse that she might think he's _interested, _which is just… _No. _His stomach lurches._._

"Look, I'm not…" His words shrivel up upon escaping. This is so… strange. Strange because he's never said this before- never _had_ to say it. The girls were always uninterested, not vice versa.

"I'm not asking for… for any special reason, okay? I just want to see the dogs."

Silently Hanna purses her lips. She slides from her seat, leaving Jesse baffled as to her intentions, until she pats him clinically on the shoulder.

"Tomorrow at noon," she says. "I guarantee you'll love them."

* * *

Besides the fact that it has an extra story, and the lawn is larger, Hanna's house greatly reminds Jesse of his own. He stares at its front porch and shuttered windows as he pulls into the driveway, wondering how much it pays to be a woodworker, anyway. Hanna certainly seems to be doing well for herself.

Seconds after he's rung the doorbell, the lock clicks and Hanna appears. She's dressed more casually than usual, a loose black T-shirt tucked into blue jeans. Her hair is down, and she's even wearing glasses.

"Hey there." Hanna widens the door and ushers Jesse inside. "Come on in."

Jesse finds himself standing in a small hallway, facing a flight of stairs. Straight ahead is a kitchen, and to his left is a closed door. To his right, he hears the sound of a TV and spies its flickering glow. Someone is sitting on the couch in front of it. Jesse goes to the doorway, taking in the sight. A woman is facing the TV, her back to an unused fireplace. She's got dark eyes and hair and looks younger than Hanna, but not young enough to be her daughter. At her feet is a plastic basket full of mismatched socks, and in her hand, a pair which she's just finished sorting. The moment she notices Jesse, she sets down the socks and smiles. "Hi."

"Hi." Jesse crosses the floor to shake her hand, while Hanna speaks from behind him. "This is Emily, my partner."

_Oh. _Part of Jesse feels stupid for having leapt to conclusions in the bar the day before, but it's not like Hanna ever mentioned Emily's existence. Suddenly he feels a little more at ease. "Kevin. I'm Hanna's student." He lets go of Emily's hand as she nods warmly. Somehow, it doesn't hurt as much as it had when Hanna first smiled at him. Maybe he's getting used to it. That can only be a good sign.

"It's nice to finally meet you," says Emily, and she actually sounds like she means it. "I've heard nothing but good things from Hanna. She says you're a natural." Her grin turns sly. "Makes her job easy."

Jesse shrugs, slightly uncomfortable with the praise, though he feels a simultaneous sliver of pride. "Nice to meet you too."

"Kevin, would you like anything to drink?" Hanna asks. "Tea… coffee…"

"Ah-" He turns to face Hanna. "Neither. Um, where are-"

"Laundry room." Jesse thinks he spots a trace of amusement on Hanna's face, but if so, she's hiding it well. "Just follow me." She steps across the freshly-vacuumed rug, and Jesse obeys her. They end up in the kitchen, all flecked linoleum and stone countertops. Ahead of them is an adjacent doorway, across which a baby gate has been set up. Jesse follows suit as Hanna climbs over the baby gate. Once his gaze lands on what's beyond the gate, he falls still, staring nakedly.

Between the washer and dryer, a large, fluffy dog lies on the floor, her tongue hanging out as she gazes sweetly up at Jesse. And surrounding her scamper four puppies, miniature versions of her. They're practically carbon copies.

Oh.

"We've already found homes for a couple of the litter," Hanna says, bending down to pick up a braided rope toy. "Or, well, Emily has. Starr is her dog, so the process of breeding has sort of been her special project." She shakes the toy, managing to attract one puppy, but the remaining three are intrigued by Jesse's arrival. They rush over, pawing clumsily at his boots.

Dear god.

Awkwardly, Jesse finds a place to sit on the cluttered floor, and the puppies all clamor for his attention, shoving their noses in his face. He's not sure where to start, but when he sees Hanna stroking the distracted puppy's ears, he reaches out to pet each dog in turn. All three are soft and seem highly appreciative of his touch. One yaps at him, and it's a funny sound, the equivalent of a little boy puffing out his chest and lowering his voice to assert dominance.

"Hey there." A hesitant smile grows on Jesse's face as one of the puppies climbs into his lap. It licks at his hand, as if taking in his scent. Jesse leans forward, and its head snaps up, eyes gleaming and alert. In that moment, something within Jesse shifts. Before he knows what's happening, he feels his heart open up, and the puppy finds its way inside.

Sudden laughter wells up in his chest and spills out of his mouth. It's a startling sensation, but it feels inexplicably good.

"He likes you," Hanna says approvingly, and the feeling is mutual.

* * *

Jesse has never owned a dog before. Not on his own, anyway, and never for very long. The last time he can recall his family owning one when he was twelve and his brother was two. Their dog was an old hound whom everyone called Brown, though Jesse can't remember now if that was his actual name or if his parents had simply used it for so long that it stuck. What he _does _remember is Jake pulling on the dog's tail, and how mad that had made him, even though he knew his brother didn't know any better. He'd given Brown a few extra treats to make up for it, and in return, the dog had curled up against him on the sofa while he used the TV to avoid homework.

The puppy that Jesse has taken home is nothing like old Brown was. Hanna claims his name is Steele, and Jesse likes it. It's a strong, intimidating name for a small dog. "No one's gonna mess with you," Jesse tells Steele when he first lets him off the leash to run around his house. "You hear that? They'll know you're a tough guy as soon as they meet you."

Adopting a puppy is a move Jesse definitely hadn't foreseen, but fortunately, the house is too bare for any objects or substances to pose a threat to Steele's well-being. Hanna has given him a few toys from her house, including a squeaky purple bone which she says is Steele's favorite. Besides a crate and a blanket for transportation, the rest had been on Jesse to find- food and water bowls, a bag of dog chow, a bed to put beside his during the night, a leash and collar. He figures he should get him a tag with his name on it, to make it official, but there's no need to rush anything. For now, Steele seems perfectly content to explore the house and dance around Jesse's feet. Jesse takes out one of the toys from Hanna's house, and they play tug-of-war until Steele surrenders, rolling onto his back for a belly rub.

It's later that night, after Jesse and Steele have both had their dinners and Jesse's taken him outside to do his business and they've hunkered down into their respective beds, when it happens again. Jesse awakes to find himself back at the compound, his hands and feet bound and his back flat against the floor. Mr. White- Walter- Heisenb-? _Whoever _is holding him, pressing him down with an overbearing vice grip that he'd almost take as a threat were it not for the chaos surrounding him. Bullets fly, glass shatters, and all the while he hears the consistent, steady rhythm of a machine gun blasting. Shot after shot after shot- the bullets find their homes, and bodies thump sickeningly to the floor. No sound crosses their lips, no final despairing cries or even startled curses. The only voice Jesse hears is Walter's, a sudden grunt of pain as one of the bullets marks his flesh.

It always seems to last longer than it actually did. Jesse feels like he's been lying on the floor for hours before the rhythm stops abruptly. The room is completely silent- too silent. Walt's weight is heavy on Jesse's chest, and he waits for him to roll off and set him free. But the man is motionless. Gradually, Jesse manages to slow down his adrenaline-spiked breathing and listen for a sign of life.

There is none. Frantically Jesse tries to get up, but he can't break from his chains. His panicked eyes zero in on the blood soaking the floor, spilling from where the bullet has pierced Walt's side. It's all he can see before Jack and Todd suddenly loom in his vision, peering disapprovingly down at him.

"No-" Jesse tries to hold up his hands in surrender, but he's trapped. "Please-" He pushes himself backwards across the floor as Todd turns Walter's body over with his foot, but Jack is there, stepping on Jesse's aching chest. He draws a gun, aiming it right at Jesse's head, and Jesse can't move, can't breathe, can't speak.

"I don't give a fuck if he's useful. Should have done this a long time-"

The sensation of a warm, furry body beside him rouses Jesse from his sleep. He gasps and sits up, his chest still feeling as if someone has laid bricks over it. His trembling hands form fists as he scopes out the room for something, anything that will _hurt, _anything to cause harm, anything to protect him-

Then Steele climbs onto his lap, starling Jesse so thoroughly that the ghoulish figures inside his head take flight. It takes him a long time to drop his fighting stance, but when Steele reaches up to lick his face, Jesse unclenches his fists. He passes a hand through Steele's fur, consumed with relief for the fact that he no longer owns a gun.

Jesse's face is wet with tears, but Steele's tongue wipes them away. His weight in Jesse's arms serves as a physical reminder of his safety and security. His heart racing, Jesse drops his head to nuzzle the dog, weakly grateful for the distraction he has provided. Steele is strong indeed, to bear Jesse's inumerable burdens. But something about the name doesn't sound quite right anymore. Dogs don't need to be tough and intimidating. They're simply meant to _be._

After what feels like another mindless hour of vigorously petting Steele, and trying not to liken the rhythm of his hand to the motion of the machine gun that Mr. White had set up as his savior, Jesse settles himself back down in bed. Steele pads over to the end of the bed, curling up at Jesse's feet, and Jesse is too exhausted to tell him _no. _Hanna had explained that if he didn't train Steele to sleep in his own bed right away, he'd have a hard time breaking the habit. But when Hanna was busy hustling Steele into his crate, Emily had murmured in Jesse's ear that before Starr had gotten pregnant, she'd slept beside Emily and Hanna every night, and neither of them minded. In that moment, Jesse decides that the bed is more than big enough for two.

* * *

Early next morning, Jesse awakes to find Steele pawing at him. He blearily pulls himself out of bed and collects his coat and hat while Steele runs to the door, barking. Once outside, the puppy strains at his leash as if he's never seen the sun before, while Jesse cringes in the bright morning light. He can't deny, however, that he feels better this morning than he has for a while. Once Steele has conducted his business, Jesse takes him down to the harbor.

Boats are lined up neatly by the shoreline, but Jesse doesn't focus on any of them. Instead, he gazes out across the lake, watching the sun sparkle on its surface. The water is so wide and shapeless as it stretches before him. Somehow… it reminds him of his future, or rather, the fact that he has one. Steele sniffs contentedly in the snow, following invisible trails of creatures that have burrowed beneath.

The sky overhead is what catches Jesse's eye particularly. He's never seen anything like it before. On a day like this, mid-October in America's northernmost state, there's no reason for the sky to look so… blue.

Jesse's taken by surprise when his phone vibrates. He pulls it out and sees that Hanna has messaged him.

_How was your first night with Steele?_

Jesse pulls off his gloves to text back. _Fine but he's not Steele anymore._

He kneels down and pats the dog on the head. He's not Steele, and… maybe Jesse isn't Jesse. There's no way he can change the past, and even less of a chance that he'll forget it. The mistakes he's made, and the miserable ways he's paid for them, will remain with him for years to come. He might learn to accept that, or he might not. But there's no point in carrying around the memory of who he _once _was. Not here, standing under the most beautiful sky he's even seen, with snow on the ground and a dog at his side. He's been broken down and built up again, saved and spared for reasons unknown. He's grown, he's changed, and maybe someday, he will recover. But it won't be Jesse who does so.

Shortly, Hanna responds. _What name did you choose?_

Calmly, Jesse- no- _Kevin _angles his phone's camera to capture his dog's face. He sends it to Hanna with the message, _Meet Blue._

Satisfied, he puts his phone away and takes a deep breath, observing the water. Nothing can be better than this. Just a man and his dog, and an impossibly perfect view.

**AN: The title and last line of this fic were poached from the song "Me and My Dog" by boygenius. Also, fun fact, the conversation about pickle juice is 100% based on reality, except I was Jesse and a fearless co-worker was Hanna. Another fun fact: Alaskan malamutes are straight-up adorable.**


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